


His Coat

by cuddlesome



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Fantasizing, M/M, Male Solo, Masturbation, One-Sided Attraction, Ryou has some Serious Issues, Tendershipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 20:12:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1562546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddlesome/pseuds/cuddlesome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The habit of snuggling up to it at night becomes almost normal after a while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Coat

**Author's Note:**

> I originally uploaded this on my tumblr a bajillion years ago.

It smells like detergent, cologne, and sweat, just like every other article of clothing he owns.

Rather mundane. Hell, _less_ than mundane.

That doesn’t stop Ryou from falling asleep with the black coat clasped in his arms, face pressed to the collar. He knows quite well that this tendency is more than a little odd, but then, so was his previous fascination with Monster World and his most recent one with the occult.

He wonders on occasion where the spirit of the Ring got a hold of the coat as he’s certain he did not own it before. Black isn't really his style, nor are huge, flipped up collars. Ryou doesn't have much experience identifying materials—his shirt collection consists of button-downs, sweaters, t-shirts, and little else—but the coat feels expensive somehow, as if it belonged to someone affluent.

Ryou’s morbid imagination instantly jumps to the worst conclusions regarding how he obtained it, the parasitic soul tearing the thing off of one of his many victims being the most prominent. He still checks with no small degree of paranoia for bloodstains every once in awhile, even though if the spirit played with his usual affinity for soul stealing there would be no trace of a struggle.

Most likely he dug the garment out of some forgotten corner of Ryou’s closet when he caught sight of the rain that night. At least Ryou assumes that it rained at the time; he woke up the next morning soaked to the bone. The spirit hadn’t bothered to undress so Ryou found himself not only sleep-deprived and drenched, but fully clothed. The very coat that he now has a strange interest in clung to his goose flesh covered arms with its cold dampness.

The habit of snuggling up to it at night becomes almost normal after a while. That is until one night he starts to become aroused as he rubs his cheek against one of the sleeves. Ryou tells himself that the material just feels nice as he reaches between his legs with one hand, the other still fingering the coat.

He pulls his underwear off and shoves it off the side of the bed with his foot. He’s already surprisingly hard given the lack of intentional stimulation as of yet. After only a short while of touching himself he becomes fully erect. As he fists his cock he clutches a handful of black fabric at the same time, holding like it will be torn away from him if he relents in holding as tightly as possible.

Ryou slicks the hand he’s using to touch himself in saliva with sweeping licks across his palm and fingers before slipping it under the sheets to grab onto himself again. His eyes slide shut after a few more strokes and he indulges in a small moan to further kindle his arousal.

Living alone means he can be as loud as he wishes so long as the neighbors don’t overhear. The window is cracked open, curtain rippling in a small breeze, but it’s well past midnight, and somehow he doubts anyone out on the street would care all that much if they overheard him.

On this particular night the hand that he pleasures himself with happens to be his scarred one, albeit only because his right hand is the one holding the coat in an unfailing grip. As far as he can recall, he has not used it before—it’s a near-taboo part of his body, just as his upper left arm and the space where the Ring used to hang are. After being impaled on the model castle spire his hand could no longer close completely. Of course Ryou doesn’t have to make a tight fist for these purposes; while average in length he is of more than sizable girth.

Turns out he should have tried using his disfigured hand sooner. It feels  _good_.

Each clearly etched vein in his shaft tingles when the toughened circle of skin slides over them. While he can only properly feel the smooth, warm skin of his penis as he slides it back and forth with the other parts of his hand, the touch of the scar awakens him even further. He rubs his palm to the head and over the slit.

The moans are coming out of their own volition to join in with increasingly heavy breathing.

Ryou’s hips begin to twitch and his spine arches. Throwing off his bedcovers and letting the warmth of his pulsating length fall against his thigh for a moment as he reaches behind him to grab his pillow. He gets up out of the lying down position in favor of resting with his calves and feet under his haunches. After arranging the cushion between his legs, Ryou decides to remove the oversized t-shirt he wears, begrudgingly letting go of the coat to do so. The shirt hits the ground with a soft sound.

His nipples grew stiff some ways back and tighten even more when exposed to the cool night air. Ryou rolls one and pinches it between his fingertips—slightly moist with his saliva and a small amount of semen—even as he craves to further pleasure lower regions. He wants to hold off, prolong the pleasure.

It’s difficult.

For the moment he lets his penis sit sandwiched between the sides of the pillow; engorged and heavy, flushed dark and twitching in need. His testicles are pressed against the softness as well, and with each shift he rolls his scrotum against the pillow and creates delicious friction against his genitals. Ryou reaches for the coat again and presses it to his face, nuzzling with his eyes shut before taking a deep whiff.

The black fabric smells the same. It’s the memory of the one wearing it that causes Ryou to unintentionally jerk his hips and plow into the pillow. With that movement the battle to restrain his body is lost. He knows that he probably looks like little more than a horny dog as he readjusts his position to hump against the pillow, lips parted to allow himself tiny pants of air, but he doesn't much care.

A voice that sounds like his own, only…  _better_ … pours over him. It's warm and slick, like melted butter... or slime. The spirit of the Ring whispers to him once more, not inside of his mind but at his ear, shortly joined by lips and teeth.

Ryou doesn't know the creature's name—did it even have one?— so his mouth forms wordless moans instead.

Fingernails, no,  _claws_ scrabble at his back. That voice, always the very definition of composure, slips. In Ryou's imagination, the spirit is a screamer, once he breaks him down far enough. Wet, gross sobs against his neck, begging, biting.

 _He was right. I_  am _sick._ Ryou thinks as he rubs the coat against his cheek. 

The next day he discovers that the smell of detergent, cologne, and sweat became all but buried beneath the scent of stale sex.

Ryou finds he doesn’t mind the change.


End file.
